Dream life
by Demonslayer572
Summary: Nicholas was not an ordinary man. He couldn't connect to people, couldn't live in reality. His brother was his main lifeline to the world outside... and the Merchants killed him. Piece by piece they stole his soul, while looking for his wallet. Now, with no way to reach to everyone else's reality, Nicholas would pull them into his dream. One, maybe two shot.


**This is my first attempt at Worm, and my first attempt at anything suspense/horror. also, my first attempt at any type of story in quite a long time. I wrote most of this between 3 and 7 AM, and spent almost no time going over it, too... I'm not expecting much of it, to be honest. But I have to post it now, or I'll jhate it and delete it by the time my senses come to me, so... here it is. Let me know what you think!**

Nicholas _Swaggered_ into the warehouse.

It wasn't a simple walk, it wasn't just a step, it was a move of casual confidence. A way of walking that showed that he owned the building, the crowd, the lights, the deep _thump, thump, thump_ of the music, that he owned the world itself.

It was easy to show that kind of confidence when no-one else could see him.

When no-one could see you unless you let them, when no one could stop you from doing as you pleased, when you could control the reality others saw with a thought, it was simple to feel confident in your ability to get away with walking into a rave. Even if the rave was being thrown by the Merchants.

Of the many, many groups and gangs that called Brockton Bay their home, the Merchants were considered the worst. Not in terms of evils committed, nor in terms of incompetence, simply based on the fact that they were everywhere.

Any dark alley, any gutter, and trash heap, under any blanket of newspapers, in schools, at workplaces, the Merchants were anywhere, even if you weren't officially a member. No, to be recognized as a merchant, one simply had to be riddled with the cancers they so gleefully handed out. Painkillers, cocaine, meth, or any of the more exotic drugs they cooked up themselves; if you were an addict, you were called a merchant in the Bay.

While the other gangs may also sell drugs, it wasn't their main reason for existing. It wasn't the purpose for their organizations. It was only a way to line the pockets, to make some spare change. The ABB made most of their money through human trafficking. Empire 88 was almost legit, with most of the money being given freely through backers and believers of the neo-nazis reasoning;even if they did a large amount of weapons trading.

No, the Merchants were the gang known for drug pushing. Grabbing people off the street and forcefully addicting them, selling sweet freedom from the world for a piece of your wallet and soul, until there was nothing left to give.

Nicholas wouldn't take their poison though. He wouldn't let them take his soul like they had taken his brother's.

With a thought, the world _twisted,_ and he saw two worlds at once. In one, he walked ahead, slowly pushing his way through the crowd. People shuffled around him, their bodies twisting and gyrating to the beat, some being so far gone to the taints in their blood that they lost any sense of humanity or decency. Their clothes fell shredded to the floor, bare bodies being pressed against each other.

In the other world, all the same happened, but _he didn't exist._

Nicholas watched as, in both worlds, the crowd parted the same way. A nudge here, a sidestep there, and he found his way through the crowd to the bottom of a steel staircase. In the first world, he lifted the rope blocking the stairs and walked past. In the other, it simply fell to the ground as he watched. In both, the bouncer at the steps stair at the rope for a moment, shrugged, and put it back into place.

He stopped when he reached the top of the staircase. A small balcony reached out over the warehouse' main floor, upon which two people, a man and a woman, stood entwined. His hands were deep within her pants, while her arms were buried within his shirt. Their mouths, both filled with rancid, yellowed teeth, kissed any bare skin they could reach, leading the crowd below in giving in to base urges. Nicholas was barely able to hold back a retch of disgust.

He took a moment to get his bearings, stepping to the side and finding a massive bed dominating the area that once was a manager's office. Sweat-stained, dirt covered clothing fell in heaps throughout the loft. A desk laid inverted to one side, with half of the legs missing and a massive hole through the drawers on one side, while a full-sized mirror covered in a spiderweb of cracks leaned up against a wall next to a closed door. Stepping closer to the mirror, Nicholas tidied up his appearance. You should always look good when you meet the faces of those you intended to kill.

He straightened the dark red tie, and smoothed out the creases in his pants. He ensured his shirt was buttoned correctly, and lightly clicked his tongue when he found his shirt had partially untucked. Corrections made and appearance set, even if it was only for his own benefit, he made his way back to the balcony. He turned back to the impromptu bedroom with his elbows resting his weight on the railing, and again, the world _twisted_.

In the first world, he remained standing against the balcony. The party below continued, the dancers being too absorbed in themselves, the music, or the skin of their partners to even notice a man suddenly appearing on the balcony alongside their leaders, looking like he didn't belong in any way.

In the other world, the party disappeared. The crowd was gone, the music stopped, the strobe lights turned off, and only a dim orange glow illuminated the loft.

The two on the balcony still continued fondling each other for a moment before the woman stiffened. Pulling away, she looked around, forcing the man to open his eyes too. At the lack of music, he turned to floor, while she focused on the loft. While she broke their intimacy first, he was quicker to comment.

"Da fuck? Where the hell did the fuckin' party go? We paid big money to throw this shit, fuckin' celebratin' for kickin' those Nazi shitstain's outta our place. Where da fuck did everyone go?"

"Uh, Skids, I think we gots bigger problems then the party."

When he turned to look at her, she pointed back into the loft, and he turned his wild eyes upon the only other human in sight. A man stood there, pale skin only further enhanced by the dark hair and jacket. A red tie fell to his navel, concealing most of the white shirt. Completing the outfit were black shoes that shone even in the dim light and black pants that looked as if they were pressed only minutes ago. The man stood as if an exact opposite to the others in sight.

Skidmark and Squealer, the two heads of the Merchants. While they had their lieutenants, the gang wouldn't exist if not for these two. Skidmark, the leader, had the ability to lay fields of force upon any solid surface. He could layer said fields, making the forces multiply exponentially. He received his name due to his tendency to launch dumpsters or cars at humans with these fields, leaving them as nothing more than red paste spread as far as three city blocks. He was currently half naked, his pants kicked off to the side and shirt half off, exposing his dark skin and crusty, stained underwear. Rotten teeth sat at angles in his mouth, and his hair was dreadlocked, pulled out the back of a cloth mask that covered the upper half of his face.

Squealer was the second of the Merchants. While Skidmark was the leader, the showman, the one who kept the gang together, Squealer was the one who kept them moving. Her power allowed her to construct vehicles, and make them work with special functions. Invisible cars, monster trucks, semi trailers, she had even once made a locomotive that traveled through city streets. The bigger, the better, and often uglier. While her cars had beyond technologically possible functions, they often looked and drove like shit. The only things that mattered to her, however, was how fast they could deliver the Merchant's drugs from the cookers to the suppliers and dealers, as well as how quickly they could bring the profits back. Dark grease stains stood out against her lightly tanned skin, and her shirt was obviously used more as a rag for oil than as a means of modesty. Makeup caked her face, uneven and running from sweat. Her hair was knotted and messed, falling twisted by sweat and limp around her face.

They stared at the man in the loft with them for a moment, before Skidmark began his tirade.

"Who tha fuck d'ya think you is, eh? Fuckin' showin' up 'n crashin' our party. Get lost, ya fucking jizz rag!" As he shouted, he placed a field under the man's legs, then another behind him to make him fly faster into the wall. The fields shone a dark blue, sending out force to send the man flying away from Skidmark.

From his place standing beside the pair, Nicholas smiled.

His reflection in the second world did as well, his power making it all to easy to literally make the smile too wide for his face. Sharp teeth shone in the orange light, as the man stepped _forward,_ seemingly unaffected by Skidmark's field.

"Is that the best you have, Skidmark? Do tell me that's not all you can do."

Skidmark and Squealer stumbled backwards, her elbow hitting the railing. Unable to comprehend what he was seeing, Skidmark's voice shook. "Wha- What tha fuck're you-How the fuck isn't you flying from my skids?"

Squealer was shaking even more than her boyfriend, even as she reached into a pocket on her pants and pulled out a small gun, strange curves making it look like something that wouldn't be able to fire. With a pull of the trigger it proved expectations wrong, however, a bullet flying with an odd blue flash of light behind the barrel.

In the real world, some people looked around for a moment, then shrugged off the strange sounds as an interrupt in the music. Nicholas watched carefully, taking a step away from the ledge, but staying well away from Skidmark's fields.

When Squealer's gun had no visible effect, even when Skidmark laid down three skids to make the bullets fly faster, the pair started looking for other solutions. Squealer started what was her version of negotiations. "Hey, this's a party, yeah? You want in on the fun? We got the good shit, getcha higher than a fuckin' kite, haha! Shit that'd knock you on yer ass, pull ya up, then knock ya out again,"She said, conveniently ignoring the fact she had shot him 6 times. "Whaddya say? A few pills, a line or three, we all walk away, yea?"

"No, Squealer, I don't believe that I shall be partaking in any of the goods you 'Merchants' sell. Truly, you insult me by believing I would be here for your tainted product."

"Tainted? Da fuck is you callin' tainted? Our shit's the best there is in the fuckin' country you used fuckin' condom, we give peeps the best high o'their fuckin' LIFE! You crash our party, say our shit's bad, and think you gonna get away with it? I've had enough of you, ya fuckin' cock bite!" WIth that, Skidmark started throwing his fields. First he made a ring around himself and Squealer, all the dark blue of repulsion. Then, he laid fields at the edge of the balcony, all the violet of attraction, to keep everything contained. Then, he threw them _everywhere._

Under the mirror, the desk, the bed, the clothing, fields flew out and started a veritable storm of detritus. The mirror smacked into a wall, the glass shards flying free and separating in the storm. The desk smashed a portion of the bedpost, then a wall, then the mirror frame, shards of wood flying with each crushing impact. Skidmark layered his fields, further protection himself and Squealer, while making sure all of his projectile weaponry stayed in the loft to strike the man that still kept smiling.

In the first world, Nicholas had thrown himself onto the staircase the moment Skidmark started laying fields. He watched as two fields were laid out where he had previously stood, pushing in opposite directions, and only envisioned what would have happened if he had stayed there.

In the second world, his reflection did as he imagined.

Wood tore at his skin, glass shredded his clothing, the bed smacked him to the ground, his body was pulled into the skids, and he was slowly torn to pieces. Blood covered the walls, the floor, the ceiling, some was even caught in the fields and kept flying. With his body in pieces, Skidmark slowly dropped his fields, being careful to leave the ones protecting him and squealer for last. He stepped forward, looking over the battered and shredded body that laid on the ground.

In the first world, Nicholas stood up, and walked back up the stairs. He reached into his suit jacket, and pulled out a small rectangular item.

In the second world, Skidmark spit on his corpse, Squealer kicking it once for good measure.

In the first world, Nicholas flicked open the switchblade, testing the blade on his thumb. He barely felt it slice open his skin, it split so easily.

In the second world, the Merchants started as the music started again. They turned around, and Squealer ran to the balcony, Skidmark following slower.

In the first, Nicholas stepped aside, a predatory smile growing across his lips.

In the second, The Corpse stood again. In the first, Nicholas joined it.

In both, they stepped forward,, walking around the majority of the glass to be as quiet as possible. In both, Skidmark asked the same question. "Who the fuck was that guy, and why the fuck was here?"

In both, Squealer and Skidmark stopped as a throat was cleared, and turned to face the noise.

In the first, Nicholas carried a death's head grin, spread so wide you could see his molars.

In the second, the smile stretched literally from ear to ear, teeth grinding against each other, causing a sharp note to reach out. His body still showed all the signs it had while he was down; His left eye gouged out, a shard of glass sticking out of it. His left leg showed more bone than skin, and his right twisted to point sideways. His arms had grown past human proportions, reaching down to his knees, glass replacing fingertips.

In both worlds, Nicholas' arms raised, pointing blades at the two heads of the Merchants. He stepped forward, blades tickling the undersides of his prey's throats.

In the first, his knife was against Skidmarks throat.

In the second, he stepped left, both arms baring glass claws at Squealer.

In both, he answered the questions.

"I am my dream life. I am your nightmare. Why I do this? Because you two killed my brother. And I intend to return the favor."

As Skidmark laid down his fields to push the _monster_ away from his girlfriend, a blade slit his throat. As Squealer watched the _thing_ reach out to her, she screamed. But she felt nothing, even as the creature's arms went through her head.

Then Nicholas let go of the second world, and she saw him.

Untouched, unmarked, only a few drops of blood on his fingertips. Her boyfriend lay on the ground, a growing pool of blood pouring out of his throat. Nicholas smiled at her, and raised the blade once more.


End file.
